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Current Novus date and time is

▶ Year || 503
▶ Season || Summer
▶ Temp || 74℉ (℃) - 100℉ (℃)
▶ Weather || The weather radar really does seem to be off the charts lately...
I wonder what's going on? (#23-26)


Character of the Season
El Toro

Member of the Season

Thread of the Season
Bring Me Thunder; Bring Me Steel

Pair of the Season
Eik and Isra

Quote of the Season
"Her mother lives all in day, her father all in night, and Apolonia straddles the thin, dusky line halving her heart with not so much grace - startling awake in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn, trying to find some way to compromise." — Apolonia in
The Vine & The Rain & The Light

see here for nominations


Day Court Scholar

The Character


▶ Age: 5 [Year 498 Summer]
▶ Gender: Male
▶ Pronouns: He/Him/His
▶ Orientation: Bisexual
▶ Breed: Selle français
▶ Height: 17 hh
▶ Health: 8
▶ Attack: 12
▶ Experience: 13
▶ Signos: 1,915 (Donate)

▶ Joined: 02-28-2018
▶ Last Visit: 20 minutes ago
▶ Total Posts: 18 (Find All Posts)
▶ Total Threads: 1 (Find All Threads)

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Full Reference


Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

First Impressions

On the surface, he seems almost normal. A pleasant smile graces his upturned lips, and his silver eyes linger in yours for just the right amount of time to achieve politeness, before flitting away in modesty. The effect is almost shy, boyish. His voice is light, placid; more melodic than you would expect from the formidable blackness he cloaks himself in. Inexplicably, you find yourself drawn to him.

And then a shadow passes over his elegant features, so fleeting that you almost miss it. But you are sharp, and you catch it by the wings before it escapes. Suddenly, it is like a shroud you hadn’t sensed before has been ripped from its fastenings. As if awakening from a dream, you realize why you had thought he was almost normal.

Because that smile, how unnervingly artificial it is. Those eyes, how cold and empty they are – like they are missing something, for there exists no soul that lingers behind those pale, gray windows. That voice, how silken it is as it whispers to you, as it soothes your nerves with each lilting syllable. You realize, with increasing clarity, that his entire facade has been meticulously crafted to perfection.

You realize, with increasing horror, that you are staring straight into the eyes of Death.

Last Impressions

You know that he is going to kill you. But strangely, you feel no fear. In fact, you feel happier than you have ever felt in your life, and you know that he has done something to your mind. In your last moments of blissful life, there is little you can do except hazily examine the boy who holds a knife against your throat.

Black. He is a sea of rolling black, the only respite being the moonlight silver of his eyes. A raven – he reminds you of a raven, and you whisper it to him. A soft smile settles upon his lips, and it is utterly different to the one he had offered you before. You know, this time, that it is real.

Slowly, he spreads his midnight wings wide around you, blocking out the stars, the moon, until you see nothing but obsidian feathers. And then, you notice that beneath the first set, there is another. Two sets of massive raven’s wings.

Entranced, you shift your gaze to his face, and marvel at how delicately shaped his features are. Like rich satin, he is beautiful, and so much younger than you had thought. A fallen angel. A line of symbols you do not recognize are carved into his forehead, the scars almost seeming to glow. What do they mean, you wonder. As you scrutinize the symbols, you realize how much taller he is. Not enough to be monstrous, but just enough to be captivating. His frame is avian, his build light and agile. His hair is inky silk, long and braided against his crown. You think, how could such a lovely boy be an assassin?

“I am sorry,” he murmurs to you. You close your eyes as the scent of jasmine and pomegranate wafts like a lullaby against your skin. “You, especially you. I did not want you to die.”

As your vision fades to darkness, you smile.

Thank you, for letting me see what I had desired most in the world. I had not known Death to be so kind.

*in his references, Caine's eyes are yellow. They turn yellow when he uses his magic, but normally they are silver. His new reference will correct that.

Volatile and tortured - Coldly impassive - Sharply intelligent - Morally ambiguous - Consumed by magic

“I do what is required of me. Nothing more, nothing less. I am a weapon, and weapons are not obliged to have feelings.”

As smooth and black as polished obsidian, Caine’s expressions are elegantly crafted masks to conceal what lies beneath. Impassive seems too light a word to fit him, like a badly-tailored suit hanging from too-slim shoulders. He is as concerned with the affairs of others like one would be for the fate of the grass trampled underfoot. Not a touch of love, of warmth, has ever graced the boy’s short, yet hollow, existence. How can he be expected to reciprocate?

For Caine does not feel like others do – he was raised without morality, without justice or kindness or any of those shining plaques of character children are spoon fed before they can even speak. What he does know, he has grasped with difficulty from Agenor and the books he has read. Every action of his lacks substance – but appearances have always been more compelling, and of that, he is unmatched. As keen as a raven, Caine wields imitation like art. He shifts his composure according to the moods and behaviors of the people around him. Molding himself into what they like, what they want to see. It makes it so much easier to gain their trust, when the handsome stranger approaches with such a lovely smile. Yet Caine rarely, if ever, approaches without prior intent – and that intent most often involves a gleaming sharp blade, and most certainly ends with a neatly slit throat.

“People are born to die. That is the only fate they are guaranteed; so why do they reject Death so vehemently?”

From his upbringing, the boy has developed an utterly twisted and broken sense of morality. To him, the world is entirely shades of gray – the paradigms of black and white, good and evil, do not exist. He rejects the distinction made between the sides of an ever-oscillating coin, believing they are biases people presume as they hunger after the same things. Caine does not view the act of killing as wrong. That said, the boy harbors no sense of bloodlust. Rather, he sees his duties as simply a means to an end, and is somewhat disgusted by those who revel in sadistic bloodshed. How tasteless for actions to be made without proper reason. Life is a chessboard, and for the integrity of the game, moves are not to be made with reckless abandon. That had been his first lesson. (Ironically, Agenor had been almost romantically noble.)

Yet to believe, even for a second, that Caine is merciful, would be a fatal mistake. No amount of tears or begging will ever erase a name from the Reaper’s ink-soaked summons. The Command is absolute, and Caine does not falter.

“Sometimes, I cannot discern where the magic ends and where I begin.”

The boy he never was, and never will be, only shows bits and pieces of himself after the midnight bells have long ceased tolling, and the blood of his targets have stained the black streets red. In these quiet moments, Caine is somber. His glassy, silver eyes darken and solidify. His laughter almost sounds real. His moonlight gaze spills his anguish, his pain, in suffocating waves. In these times of lucidity, the feeling that he is supposed to be troubled, supposed to be upset and horrified at his actions, gnaws at him to no end. Does the boy even have a heart, a soul, underneath the layers of black magic coating him like a corrosive poison?

Even Caine himself cannot answer that question.

The Raven of Vectaeryn

He was birthed in the depths of an abnormally hot summer, and left to rot in a shadowed alleyway just outside of Sunsyia’s gilded palaces. Yet even then, mahogany coat slick with sweat, the colt was as silent as the dead as he fixed his milky eyes upon Agenor’s sharp face. It was that unrelenting stare of his, that prompted the keen Consul to bring the child home to his opulent mansion along the Smoking Coast. For the first months of his life, the child was raised by a wizened, kind nurse. It was the only kindness the boy would ever receive, and it was a pity he was too young to remember.

As Winter withdrew her icy fingers from the thawing land, Agenor summoned the silver-eyed boy to his chambers. Up to this point, the boy had remained unnamed. And nameless he would stay, as Agenor refused to form any sort of attachment to his newest student. He had learned to keep his distance, after the last ones had resulted in such crippling failure.

As the Order of the Scale’s most esteemed Consul, the oft hailed Agenor had embarked on a decades-long mission to craft the perfect pawn; heartless enough to fell the Order’s enemies without batting an eye, yet competent enough to keep the Sun King’s damned attention away from the carnage. And with this one at his side, the man could feel hope rising in his chest for the first time in years. The Order’s glorious rise from the ashes would finally be realized. Agenor would make sure of it.

From that moment on, the boy was visited by no one other than his master. He would learn to thrive in isolation, anticipating the hourly lessons given by his knowledgable instructor every afternoon. The rest of the time, of which he had entirely too much of, he dedicated to reading. Scrolls on Vectaeryn’s illustrious history; parchments on the Order’s movements across centuries; tomes of archaic, fantastical magic. The boy neglected nothing in his studies. Yet, his eagerness to please only seemed to anger Agenor more and more, and soon, his lessons were suspended entirely.

The boy was still so young when the experiments began. Deep in what had once been the estate’s sprawling dungeons, was a cavernous room filled with bubbling potions of every color. Ancient tomes bound with rotting leather were stacked high upon the creaking shelves, and emaciated creatures from every inch of the earth snarled from within rusty cages. Unbeknownst to even his fellow Order members, the black-eyed Agenor had concealed his magical abilities for his entire career. An exemplary Consul leader by day, and a heartless dark mage by night.

The silver-eyed boy was his ninth subject. And he shall be my last.

As the weeks crawled into torturous months, the boy learned to stem his screams by gnashing his tongue until blood filled his mouth, as Agenor ruthlessly unleashed spell after spell upon the boy’s shaking body. It was during this period of his life, that he began to call himself by a name in private. A sleepless night he had spent poring over books, until the words had tasted just right upon his tongue. Caine Verona Selwyn.

Agenor’s increasingly ambitious spells quickly turned Caine’s bay coat as black as onyx; and, much more slowly, shards of Caine’s heart were consumed by the spells that flowed like poison through his blood. Soon, there was no longer any distinction between what was Caine, and what was magic.

Around the time Caine began his first shadow-clad assassinations, was when he first learned of Isorath. Ironically, King Aesthia’s own gilded son was the current Herald of the Order. With fondness lining his voice did Agenor speak of the kirin, praising the Prince as the one who would lead the Order to its former glory.

In preparation for this fateful day, the increasingly maniacal Agenor prepared the last spell he would perform on Caine, before the boy would be ready. As Agenor cut symbols of the arcana into Caine’s forehead with a gold-handled dagger, the incantation he chanted reached a maddening crescendo as he gleefully bound a piece of Caine’s very soul with the Herald's. Whatever the Herald commanded of him, he would follow to his death. Whatever pain the Herald suffered, Caine would feel sevenfold. Yet still, despite all the pain he had suffered in his stead, Caine would never meet Isorath before the Prince departed Vectaeryn in a whirl of gilded wings.

The Shadow of Solterra

It was only until the day Aether, Isorath’s terror-inducing dragon of ice, began his journey to his shining Prince that Caine followed in the dragon’s chilling wake. Rumors had traveled across the sea to whisper of Isorath’s plans of resurrecting the Order in a land known as Novus, under a new flag entirely: the Twilightgarde. As his Herald’s hell-sent Harbinger, Caine could not stay uninvolved for any longer. Upon silent raven's wings, he decended into the court of Day, finding amusement in his continued loyalty to the Sun over the Prince's shameless love of Night.

From the depths of Solterra, he would watch and listen. No longer was he bound by Agenor's punishing chains; and though he could not deny Isorath’s call when it came, before then, he would remain little more than a shadow in the night. Isorath did not know of him, but he knew of Isorath. And it wouldn't be long before Caine would pay his ivory Prince a long-awaited visit.

Active & Parvus Magic


The Dark Illusionist

In Vectaeryn, Caine operated under the name of the Dark Illusionist. It is artfully fitting, as the moment before his wicked blade flashes across a soft throat, he bestows upon his target an exquisitely detailed vision of their deepest desires, their greatest wishes. Their death is swift, painless, as they are blissfully lost to a world of dreams. The boy cannot explain why he does so, but to see a peaceful smile upon their faces eases a part of his humanity that even he cannot fully comprehend.

Easily fascinated by even the most mundane things, Caine notices with an artist's eye the smallest of details, and commits them fully to memory. On rare nights where he is free, he practices casting vivid illusions from those memories upon himself. A cinnamon-infused bakery, a crystalline veranda, a villa along the seashore.

Normally a pale silver, Caine's eyes flare gold when he uses his magic. Sometimes, they appear to be flaming. He finds it rather theatrical.

Magic Tier

To be filled out when he obtains his magic again.

Passive Magic


Armor, Outfit, and Accessories


outfit design

Bridle - two large fire opals are inlaid upon the thin black leather of the brow and nose band, and sleek raven feathers stagger down both sides like plumage

Limb cuffs - ornate silver cuffs slip over both of his forelimbs, the tapering edges carved into the sword and cross emblem of House Selwyn (Agenor's noble house)

Cape - a shimmery, see-through throw drapes elegantly between his wing joints, weighted down by a heavy silver charm studded with crushed fire opals

Black halo - formed by aesthetic magic; materializes when the mood strikes him

Agora Items & Awards

This user has no items.
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The Player

▶ Player Name: rallidae (Profile)
▶ PM Player: Send Message
▶ Email: Send Email
▶ Other Accounts: rallidae, Cyrene, Messalina, Rhys, Senna,
link to plotting thread
Caine's Signature
[Image: caine_headshot_alittlefancy_by_siliencely-dc67lo4.png]
and like roses in his hands, death blooms.
♠︎ ♣︎ ♥︎

please tag in posts, contact encouraged